


On That You Can Rely

by jillyfae



Series: By Stone and Shield [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Animal Death, Epilogue, Gen, The Calling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things are unavoidable, for every Warden.  Loss, of course.  Duty, vigilance.  And one final trip into the Deep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On That You Can Rely

**Author's Note:**

> [twistedsinews](http://twistedsinews.tumblr.com/) requested _Isolophobia: Fear of Being Alone_ from [this prompt meme](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/67833059864).

She'd loved, she'd married, had a sister and a nephew and friends and compatriots and loyal followers and the lingering memory of the mentor who had saved her once, life and soul, from Dust Town.  She'd lost them all, at one time or another, and finding new friends, or healing the breaches between the old, never quite vanquished the grief, the echoes of pain caught between her bones, as deep as Stone.

And yet Ingva got up again, each day, and tried again.  And again, and again,  _redemption never ends Loghain, you were right, all those years ago._

The day she reached down off her bed to pat Scabbler's head, and he did not lift up beneath her touch, skin cool beneath fur still thick and wiry, though touched with grey, was the day she knew she had lost the fight.

It was too hard to do it alone.

She'd started dreaming again, after all, which mean the end was very near indeed, if the song of the horde could drag even a dwarva back into the edges of the Fade.

She slid off her bed, and knelt beside him,  _not his body, not yet, he's still my boy,_ bowed her head and let her hand smooth down his back, return to his head, again, again, fingers lingering to stroke his ears, just the way he'd liked best.

When, at last, her eyes no longer burned, and her throat had cleared enough she'd be able to speak, she summoned a servant to begin the arrangements.

She was glad to be back in Ferelden, now, back at Denerim's Palace, because here, at least, she would not have to argue that a mabari deserved full honors in death.

Here, they even remembered this particular mabari, almost as fondly as she did, and she would have Alistair and Anora there with her, to say good-bye.

After the pyre cooled, his ashes gone, she returned to her room, and packed her bags, and settled down for one last night's sleep upon a human bed. 

She would go to Orzammar, say good-bye to Rica and Endrin, send word to Gytha and Torstan, and that would be the end of it.

It was time.

She slipped away, before the sun had quite risen, though hints of grey lightened the shadows to help guide her way.  

Not that she needed to help; she knew precisely where she was going.

So apparently did Alistair, and she stopped mid step, blinking up at him, and could not manage a single word, or even a gesture.

"You didn't think I'd let you go by yourself, did you?"  His smile was small, his eyes shadowed, and still it reminded her of the very first one she'd ever seen cross his face, when they met back in Ostagar.  It was only when she ducked her head, and shook it, and lifted it again, eyes blinking back the tears, she realized he was dressed in splintmail and leathers, a pack of his own across his back.

His shield was Duncan's old one, today, not the King's.

"But, Denerim? Anora?"

He shrugged.  "She knows the nightmares are back.  We said our farewells, and she is more than capable of running things without me, after all."  The smile twisted, fond and proud and sad.  "And she agreed we did not need some grand ceremony, as the Seneschal would surely insist, once he knew that it was time."

"You never did stop hating that formal armor."

He laughed, and she felt the low chuckle rumble through her chest, both an ache and an ease to her heart.  "Neither did you."

She smiled, felt the curve of her cheeks for the first time in what could have been years, by the weight of the candlemarks since she awoke to Scabbler's death.

"Shall we, then?"

He nodded, and he offered her his hand, and she leaned against his arm for just a breath before they walked away.  He smelled the same as he ever had, leather and metal and warmth, and she felt her smile settle, smooth and comforting.

They were wardens now, again, no more King or Hero, no more politics or marriages.  Just them.

It was good, not to be alone.


End file.
